


A Richer Dust Concealed

by Mira



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-05
Updated: 2009-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:32:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hard lands make hard people, John had once heard Andy Corrigan say, and from his experience on Truebo, he believed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Richer Dust Concealed

"We've known for years that the Lorentz invariance isn't invariable at all," Rodney says. Woolsey gazes at him blankly; Rodney wonders if he's listening.

"Foamy space bubbles," Woolsey says at last, straightening in his chair, proving he had been listening but not comprehending.

"Spacetime," Rodney corrects, but his shoulders slump. There simply isn't a way to articulate -- _dumb down_ , he thinks -- the theory he, Miko, and Radek have been working from. "Never mind," he says abruptly, and stands, his chair spinning away. "Don't worry your pretty head about it," he adds over his shoulder, but quietly. He actually likes Richard, when he isn't furious with him.

"Spacetime," he hears Woolsey mutter.

Radek is loitering in the hallway midway between Woolsey's office and the nearest transporter. "Don't say anything," Rodney snaps at him, but it's a half-hearted effort. Radek raises an eyebrow, then puts his hand on Rodney's elbow and guides him into the transporter, but not to the lab where they've been working. Instead, they exit near the mess hall. Rodney doesn't complain.

Radek guides him through the line -- to the head of the line, in fact, while others stand back, their faces as exhausted as Radek's. Ted, the young Marine so often stuck serving, seems unusually careful as he puts together what even Rodney can see is a well-balanced meal. "There you go, Doctor McKay," he says quietly, and Rodney isn't blind to Ted's exhaustion or the gentleness in his voice. He has to swallow twice before he can thank Ted.

Then Ronon takes Rodney's tray and Radek and Teyla herd him to a table outside. Even though it's late, the mess is full of people talking softly. Like a wake, Rodney thinks, but without the bitterness that thought should bring. It's summer in this hemisphere and twilight lingers for hours, the sky pale in the west, stars thick in the east. The air is sweet with the ocean breeze mingling with the scents of the kitchen and herb garden growing on this balcony.

When they're finally settled, Rodney pauses, almost too tired to pick up his fork. He stares unseeingly at the food in front of him until Ronon pushes a hand-thrown mug smelling strongly of ruus wine toward him. Rodney obediently sips at it, then takes the mug and drinks deeply. Ruus wine is wonderful, the best liquor in Pegasus, he thinks. When he sets down the half-empty mug, he looks around him. In addition to Radek, Teyla, and Ronon, around the nearby tables sit Chuck and Amelia from the control room, many scientists he worked with including old friends like Carolyn Simpson, Miko Kusanagi, Ron Parrish, Andy Corrigan -- all from the first year, people he'd recognize from behind at fifty meters. People who know him, know John, know everything, and here they are. The military is there as well, including Evan Lorne and Tim Radner, Ed Billick and his friend Coughlin, whose given name Rodney can never remember.

He clears his throat, manages to croak out a "thank you" to Ronon, who shrugs. Rodney takes a bite of food and realizes that it's the first real food he's tasted in weeks. Surprising even himself, he twists in his chair to look back at the servers standing behind the sneeze-guarded display, helping his colleagues -- his friends -- to their dinners. Ted sees him and lifts his head, looking a bit like a golden retriever that lived next door to Rodney when he was a little boy in Toronto: attentive, alert, affectionate. "Thank you," Rodney says again. Ted's eyes widen, and then he grins and nods his head several times. Embarrassed, Rodney swivels back to find Teyla smiling sadly at him.

"We will get through this," she says in her soft voice: firm, unshakeable, loving.

He can't answer, so he just jams another forkful into his mouth.

* * *

It was an old world, worn thin from time and weathering, flat as Nebraska and brown as south Texas. The air seemed thin to him as well, and sometimes he had to stop, shut his eyes, and breathe, feeling his heart thump unevenly in his chest, hearing a soft squeak on each exhalation.

John could hear himself now in the dead quiet of the night, waiting patiently in the dusty barn beside the heavily pregnant coto. His foal kit was ready, several buckets of precious water beside it. Winter had come with a vengeance to this hateful world so the pregnant coti had been brought into the barn, a rare kindness. Anf Chharbo loved his coti more than his wife, though, or so the other stockmen said. Tem Chharbo had brought her husband land and coti, so maybe so, but she loved the coti, too. She'd arranged for John to be here for the birthing season, he'd been told, after last year they'd lost over half the foals.

This was a hard world for coti and for humans, John thought. He coughed a bit, hearing the wheeze. He rolled onto his back, leaving one hand resting on the coto's shoulder; he could feel her twitch. Soon, he thought. He was worried about this one. He'd named her Yano, meaning _quiet_ in Old Athosian, because her temperament was different from the other coti he'd worked with. She was a bit smaller, too, and Tem Chharbo had told him that this was her first pregnancy.

He was grateful to Tem Chharbo. Most nights he had to sleep rough, so to be in a barn full of coti, with their warm moist heat and the softness of the hay, was a real treat. Five coti had already foaled, two in one night, and he expected another two after Yano's. But hers was the pregnancy he cared most about. She'd taken to him right away, nuzzling him like the horses he'd cared for as a boy, tickling his neck, searching his pockets for _turi_ , the crunchy apple-like ground fruit dried from summer gleanings.

Calm Yano had started to pace and turn up her nose at _turi_ and anything else two days ago. This morning, he saw her nipples had begun to leak milk, and he knew from Earth horses and Trueban coti that her time was near. He'd bound her tail and washed her rump and vulva, speaking softly to her, stroking her shoulders. Tem Chharbo had watched from a distance; her husband was away on Krolavsh business. The other hands were out rounding up distant herds of coti because winter was going to hit hard soon. Another bad year, John thought.

Yano twitched again, then shivered, and he helped her to rise, leading her in a slow circuit around the barn. She peed a little bit, something she'd been doing all day, and then let him guide her on. Chharbo had repurposed an ancient building -- not built by the Ancients, but some other race long vanished from this land. John had seen ruins almost melted away during his long walk across this world. Most had been left alone; he understood there was some superstition about the vanished people, but Anf Chharbo wasn't like others. He loved the coti and had worked long years to build his stock, both in quantity and quality.

John heard a noise and soothed Yano, speaking softly to her; she peed a little more. When he looked up, he saw Tem Chharbo and her servants Hom and Arn on either side of her. John had been among decent folk on Truebo long enough to know that, even with her servants, the tem shouldn't be in the barn with an itinerant vet. He bowed, and kept his eyes low or on Yano. "Tem," he murmured, stroking Yano's throat.

"How is she?"

"Soon, I think." Yano shivered again, and backed a bit, then nudged John. "I should keep walking her."

"Yes, do." John felt burdened under the tem's scrutiny. This was a strange place on a strange world. He returned his attention to Yano. She was important tonight, no one else.

She startled again, and he felt her legs buckle. "Bit farther," he murmured, urging her back into her stall. She froze just outside and then her water broke. "Good girl, good girl," he told her, knowing she was frightened. He wiped her down, long firm strokes, and then helped her lie on her side. "This is it," he called softly down the long center aisle to where the tem and her servants stood. He washed his hands in disinfectant, pulled on the gloves, and washed them as well.

He sat so Yano could see him, but near her backside. Her great belly was heaving, and sweat began to mat her dark fur. "Ahh, ahh," she gasped. Right now, there was not much he could do but keep watch, and hope his presence would comfort her. He'd seen many foals born when he lived with his father, and the coti were much like Earth horses in their behavior, though not so much in their looks. "Ahh," she gasped again, and he cocked his head. He could hear her wheezing, too; fucking stable cough was endemic on this world, and not just for coti in stables. The continent was flat and dry and high in the latitudes, and this region known for its duststorms.

He heard the tem approach, walking softly, and heard her woman-servant Hom whisper something to her -- probably advising her not to get too close. Good advice, John thought.

Yano groaned, a heart-rending sound, but John saw peeking from her vulva a whitish sac and knew the foal was coming. "Oh, good girl," he said, and sat up on his knees to watch better. The sac pulsed and trembled, and with another great push by Yano, more slid out. Through it, John could see a black hoof, and he laughed. "Come on, come on," he crooned. Yano pushed again, gasped for breath, groaned, and gasped again. More of the foreleg appeared. She lifted her top rear leg and pushed again, switching her tail. When the second hoof appeared, John said, "Let me help, girl," and gently took took the legs in hand, not pulling, just holding. Yano rested for nearly a minute, then shifted, raising her tail, and moving into a crouch. "I know, I know," John said, and then suddenly the foal's nose was there. "You can lie down," he told Yano, but she stayed in her crouch. John began to pull gently, and then Yano did slide back onto her side. She groaned again and the baby began to emerge, wet and sloppy.

"Come on, push," he told Yano. The sac tore and the little head was right there. "Oh my god," he said. "Push!" he told Yano again, and she did and suddenly there was a foal, soaking wet. He peeled the sac off the head and shoulders of little fellow, calling, "It's a boy!" to Tem Chharbo. He pulled the rear legs out of the sac, making sure the mouth was clear, while both mother and son rested. "Good Yano, good girl." He left the afterbirth alone and stood, stretching his back, and watched as the colt struggled to his feet. The tenacity of the newborns never failed to amaze him. The impulse to live was so strong even on this shitty world.

Yano sighed deeply and raised her head to look at the strange creature. John watched closely, but she wasn't in distress, just curious. The afterbirth still drooped from her vulva. He checked his watch, but of course, it had been gone a long time, one of the first things he'd bartered for food in the early days. He stretched, washed his gloves, took them off, and washed his hands, then, circling around the tem, stepped outside.

The barn, though chilly, was a lot warmer than the night. He took a deep breath and coughed for a while, spitting up dusty phlegm. He checked the stars and the position of the greater moon so he'd know how long Yano took to push out the afterbirth, and for the foal to begin nursing.

Hearing noises behind him, he turned and ducked his head. "She seems well, Tem," he said to the ground in front of her.

"A colt, though," she said, and John felt his heart sink. On Truebo, most colts were destined for the dinner table.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured.

"You have a talent with the coti," Tem Chharbo said. "I will tell the anf."

He bowed. "Do you want me to stay for the other two mares?"

"Yes," she said firmly. Without another word, she led the way back to the big house. John stretched more, and sighed, glad to be alone again. He found all the anf on Truebo just as irritating as the cocktail-and-club set his father had courted back on Earth. He found it depressing to learn that such things were apparently invariable no matter which galaxy.

A gust of wind slammed into him, making him shiver and cough, so he went back into the barn, sliding the big doors shut. They'd been jury-rigged onto the building and didn't fit perfectly, but they shut out the worst of the wind and dust. He'd put Yano on the far side of the big circle around the barn, so she had a wall between her and the doors to cut down on drafts.

When he returned to her stall, her colt was still struggling to stand, and looked good: his head and chest held high, his eyes open. Yano had turned around and was licking his back, snuffling him, nudging him a bit. John smiled at them. His job now was just to watch. He felt again a sharp pang knowing that the curious young coto was destined to grow into a huge bull-like creature. The sexual dimorphism between the male and female coti had startled him; for weeks of traveling across the plains, John had thought they were two separate species. He wished Yano had had a filly; they were cherished and cared for in a much different way, valued for their ability to produce the males that fed the local population and for their milk, used to make butter, cheese, and a disgusting beverage the Truebans called tea. It was a protein rich diet, but there wasn't much green on Truebo, not that John had seen.

When the sun had started to rise, John was dozing. He'd seen the colt nurse and begin to explore the stall, and had made sure the first pellets of meconium had been passed. There was nothing for a human to do now but rest. Yano nuzzled his throat, and he kissed her nose, then rolled over, sighed, and fell into sleep.

Tem Chharbo's servant Arn woke him. "The tem thanks you for your care," he said in his gravelly voice. He set next to John the tin tiffin-box they used to pack meals. John sat up, rubbing his eyes, and automatically checked on Yano and her colt. Both looked fine, and he thought he'd if the wind wasn't too strong he'd take them out to stretch their legs later.

"Thanks," he said to Arn, and hungrily opened the tin. It was three layers, unusually generous. "Oh god," he said, as the smell wafted up. Grilled coto sausages in the top layer, small patties of fried coto cheese in the second, and a bowl of a warm liquid in another. He looked at Arn.

"You don't like tea," Arn said. "Hom made a flower tisane for you. Good for the lungs."

"Thank you," John said again. "Thank you all." He carefully sipped at the tea; it didn't taste too much different from weak green tea, he thought, and drank thirstily.

Arn remained squatting next to John, so he said, "Is there something else?"

"The anf will be home soon. It would be better if you weren't here."

"Shit," John said. "Because Tem Chharbo came out at night to see the foaling?"

Arn shrugged. "Never good for a wanderer to stay long," he said. "Stones must roll."

That was a saying John was getting tired of. He'd really like to find a place to settle, but the rules on Truebo were varied and confusing. He had trained himself not to think of his team, but sometimes he wished for Teyla to interpret for him. And here, having a woman on his team would have been invaluable. He sighed and said, "Thank you, Arn. I'll go right away."

"Tonight," Arn said. "Look under the windmill." Then he was gone, crunching through the dry hay, boots shooting up fountains of dust as he left.

* * *

"Don't say it," Rodney snaps, not looking up from the ZPM he's been staring at for hours. "I know you've been monitoring me via the security feed."

Radek ignores that and says, "Quantum communication and quantum teleportation cannot exist at the macro level because they are by definition occurring on the quantum level."

Rodney ignores him right back.

"Unless," Radek says and pauses. Rodney restrains himself from looking up. "Unless the principle of locality can be violated at the macro level." Rodney sighs. "Miko and I would like you to take a look at something."

At this, Rodney looks up in sudden hope, then immediately tries to mask his emotions. Before he can say anything, Radek walks to him and gently pulls him up and away. Exhausted, Rodney has little energy to do anything but obediently follow Radek as he leads him through the corridors of Atlantis to a small lab. There, Miko and Carolyn wait. Rodney knows that Carolyn is in all but name the CSO now, assuming responsibility for managing their people and projects while Rodney has been caught up in his intense search for John, and while Miko has been working with Radek. Evan Lorne is there, too, but Rodney ignores him.

"So," Rodney barks. Miko adjusts her glasses and nudges a laptop's monitor toward Rodney. He wipes his tired eyes and peers at it.

"It's counter-intuitive," Radek says instantly, "but the math works." Radek and Miko have tried to keep Rodney updated with their work, especially since the math requires Atlantis' supercomputer working day and night, but only now does he see what they've done. No wonder they both feel confident of their findings. Radek is -- and Rodney even admits this aloud -- the best engineer in Atlantis, and Miko is a brilliant theoretician. She's too shy but he had followed her work when she was still an undergraduate and she is only now reaching her peak. Together they are a formidable team.

Radek believes their work will be transformative, he tells Rodney, who can barely hear him over the roar in his ears. Then he hears "Rodney? Rodney?" and someone is shaking him. He looks up into Lorne's anxious face.

"He hasn't been eating," Rodney hears Radek say.

Carolyn kneels next to him saying sternly, "I should get you to the infirmary --" He tries to protest but she holds up her hand -- "but I won't _if_ you promise to go with Evan and get something to eat, and then rest for a few hours. Ah!" she interrupts him again. "Eat and rest, or infirmary: your choice."

He scowls at her, but they all know what his choice is. Radek and Lorne help him up, and now Lorne is leading him along. Rodney pauses at the doorway to look back. "Good work," he says, his voice hoarse.

"We will wait for you," Radek says. Rodney wonders what he means but he's too tired to do anything but let Lorne hustle him into the mess hall where, he discovers, it's late afternoon. Long beams of sunlight stream through the stained glass windows diffusing into the room so every color is richer, deeper: the browns of the Marine's desert MCCUUs and the greens of the Airmen's ABUs seemed to glow in the lush light. Rodney pauses to close his eyes; Lorne's hand grips his arm more firmly, so Rodney says, "I'm okay. Just." He sighs.

"Come on, Rodney," Lorne says in an unbearably kind voice.

Someone must have tattled because by the time Rodney is spooning up tava bean soup Teyla appears. "Thank you, Evan," she murmurs. "I believe Carolyn has something for you?"

"Yeah. You gonna be okay, Rodney?"

Rodney nods, mouth full.

"Good. We'll talk tomorrow." On that mysterious comment, Lorne leaves, and Teyla settles in his place across from Rodney.

"M'okay," Rodney says between bites.

"No, you're not," Teyla says. "None of us is all right. But if what Carolyn and Evan have told me is accurate, perhaps there is a way to correct this."

For a moment, Rodney thinks he's going to cry, right there in the mess. He freezes, staring at the table between him and Teyla, and struggles to breathe slowly. He tries to remember the lessons in meditation he's had with Teyla, but mostly he remembers Ronon snoring and getting whacked with sticks. That makes him smile, and then he can breathe again. He takes a sip of water and says, "They won't let me look till I get some sleep."

"That is wise," she says, and sits with him until he'd finished the soup and bread and an _aren_ pear. She tells him about Torren's latest triumph, and the new ground Kanaan is supervising the plowing of, and how Athosians were not traditionally farmers but that with the Atlantians help were growing wheat on several worlds. At last, she helps him bus his tray and then walks with him to his quarters. "Perhaps," she says kindly, "if you have the energy, you should bathe."

He feels himself flush, but just nods. She puts her hands on his shoulders and he knows to bend to her, to let their foreheads rest together, and then to breathe quietly. Her tranquility soaks into him and he suddenly feels that he could sleep. "Thank you," he whispers. To his surprise, he feels a soft kiss on his cheek.

* * *

Arn and Hom and the other servants in Anf Chharbo's household had been generous. John wondered what fate had been in store for him when he saw the tiffin-box full of enough food to last him several days, a warm kapi -- a sort of hooded cloak -- and two pairs of hand-knitted socks. He was so grateful for the socks; he put a pair on right away, sighing in relief. He was wearing all his clothes: a pull-on shirt he'd stolen a few months into his exile, a jacket he'd earned working in a slaughterhouse gutting male coti, a disgusting job only the poorest did but John was pretty poor on this world. The first time he'd helped a mare foal had been an accident, but word spread that he had a light touch with the animals. Mares were valuable beyond all other wealth on this world.

A world, he thought as he draped the kapi around him and tied the tiffin-box to his back, the he really didn't like. But he had soon learned there was no gate here. He had a few theories about how people came to live on this land; he was certain they hadn't evolved here. The enormous continent was dry and cold and grew little that humans found edible. Only the coti were of value.

Hard lands make hard people, John had once heard Andy Corrigan say, and from his experience on Truebo, he believed it. Looking the wrong way at someone could cost a life; John knew this because he'd had to fight more than once in his early days. He'd been angry then, and happy to strike out, kick, bite, use every trick Ronon had ever taught him, and he'd gained a measure of respect that way. Or at least of fear.

But months of walking hadn't led him to anything like a home. The melted cities that he'd explored were mounded with dust from the enormous storms that blew up. Anf Chharbo was the only person he'd come across who had dug out any buildings to use. He admired that, but he knew the anf hadn't trusted him. Probably he'd left his wife at home during the foaling season so he'd had reason to kill or, more likely, imprison John in servitude.

At that thought, he walked faster, staying to the track that served as a road in this part of the world because he didn't want to leave a trail in the dust. He planned to be a long way away before Anf Chharbo returned home. The two other mares had foaled before without problem so he thought they'd be all right. It had been hard to leave Yano behind. He was sure he could have taught her to be ridden. She'd had a soft mouth and was already used to the surcingle of her winter blanket.

But he turned his mind away from Yano. There had never been a possibility of that, not on any world.

He walked faster.

By morning, John was exhausted and coughing, wondering what the wheeze in his chest meant. He was pretty sure it was a human version of stable cough, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. He thought he'd heard Anf Chharbo's lead stockman once say that there was a settlement a half-hundred dunbo south of his place, and that was the direction the road led. He knew he couldn't stay there, but he might be able to barter or steal something to eat. If the settlement was too small for real work, he might be able to barter a blowjob. He'd done that, too, in the early days. Just another job in his new life on Truebo.

John refused to let himself get angry at the people who had tossed him here. They'd beaten him, starved him, then kicked him out here -- better than spacing him, he reminded himself. But he hated them with a passion that made him gasp for breath and his heart race, so he kept walking. So much not to think about: the Couriers, the Wraith, the Truebans. Well, not all the Truebans. He hitched the kapi closer around him, grateful for his warmth.

In late afternoon, he saw the lumpy profile of another buried city to his right, in the west. At the moment, the angle of the sun revealed it in sharp relief, but as the sun sank it would glare into any travelers' eyes, hiding the city and John, so he headed toward it. Before leaving the trail, he took off his boots and, tying the laces together, slung them around his neck. He also removed his new socks, and then cautiously made his way toward the city, treading as lightly as he could. Probably no one would come by, but he didn't want to leave any trace of his passage.

The Truebans called these outcroppings cities, but only on Truebo would such towns be considered cities. Compared to the hamlets and villages dotting the parts of this world that John had seen, he supposed they would seem like cities. He wondered who had built them, and why they had left. His theory was that the builders had destroyed their environment, like Earth was doing now. Probably the Truebans had been tossed here the same way John had, though their creation myth was that massive coti had violently mated (John had seen coti mate, and it was violent): sparks from their hooves had created the sun, moons, and stars, and the male's semen created the world. Their offspring were the humans who lived here.

However, the guy who told John the story had been drunk off his ass with farro, the foul booze fermented from coti mares' milk. John drank it, too, when he had the opportunity. It made him vomit, but it also took his mind off where he was. Made it easier to give blowjobs, too, he'd discovered in the bad old days.

Poking around cautiously (though he'd never heard of snakes on Truebo; maybe it was like Ireland in that way), John found a slotted opening. He pulled on his boots and kicked his way in. The dust made him cough hard enough that he had to sit for a spell. Only when he was in the low, dust-filled room did he open the tiffin-box and drink the tisane he'd hoped would be there. It was lukewarm by then, but the moisture felt wonderful on his throat and in his mouth. He thought he could drink gallons of it, but of course, he had to be cautious. He didn't know how much farther he'd have to hike until he could find water. As far as he knew, there was no free water on all of Truebo.

He sprawled back, sighing, and carefully packaged up the tiffin-box again. He knew he should eat, but he was too tired. He spread out his kapi and instantly fell asleep.

* * *

"I'm not explaining this to Woolsey," Rodney snaps. "He won't understand, he'll forbid it or want to contact the SGC or worse the IOA and then we'll be stuck here and so no, I'm doing it. You all can fuck off."

This is tremendously unfair of Rodney, and he knows it, because they'd done almost all the work, taking his inchoate ideas and, through hard work and fucking brilliance, turned them into something real and possible and, yes, he'd say it again, brilliant.

He studies their faces. Lorne, Simpson, Zelenka, Kusanagi, Biro, Corrigan, and of course Teyla and Ronon. He doesn't want to fight them. Even his bones feel tired, as if they were dry and brittle enough to collapse into dust. "I'll go," he says again, more softly. "It's my turn."

"Doctor McKay," Lorne starts, but this time Radek holds up his hand, and Lorne falls silent.

Radek walks to where Rodney stands with his hands on his hips, chin tilted in the air, and says quietly, "Of course you will, Rodney. He is your friend. We will support you."

Rodney drops his head and takes an enormous breath. "You're a better man than I am," he murmurs to Radek, who smiles and pats Rodney on the arm.

"I know," he murmurs back, and then turns to stand at Rodney's side.

"Of course," Teyla says, and finally even Lorne nods. His eyes are dark with concern and Rodney wondered what he had ever done to deserve the friendship of these people, even the military.

"Thank you," Rodney says, a little stiff and embarrassed.

"If you are going to do this, you must do it now," Radek says. "We cannot keep this secret for much longer. Chuck and Amelia will hide the energy cost as long as possible, but someone will notice."

"Ah, maybe not," Lorne says, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that reminds Rodney of John. "I think word's pretty much gotten out."

"Better sooner than later no matter what," Rodney says firmly, though now that the time had come he realizes he's terrified. He takes a step back and says, "I'm not going to say goodbye. All right? I'm just not. I'll, we'll talk when I get back. Have a party or something."

Andy Corrigan laughs, shaking his head, and that breaks the tension. "Yes, Rodney," Simpson says. "We'll throw the two of you a nice welcome home party. I'll make my double-chocolate cookies."

Rodney actually perks up a little at that before he realizes she's teasing him. "Yes, well, I'd expect nothing less," he said. "Let's do it."

They turns to look at the piece of equipment Radek and his team of engineers have built. "Looks like a coffin," Rodney hears Lorne mutter, and he has to admit that it does. But the shape and size didn't matter; what mattered is how it works. The box is simply the shell for a high-temperature superconductor. Rodney thinks it was built of a lanthanum-based cuprate perovskite material, but he'd left the specifics to Radek, too busy with the theory behind it.

"How will you find the colonel?" Lorne asks Radek.

"Quantum teleportation at the macro level, based on entanglement theory," Radek says briskly.

"Oh," Lorne says.

Miko says, "Quantum entanglement. It means that two particles, once connected, are always in contact with each other no matter how far apart they grew." Her eyes are wide behind her thick lenses as she studies what Rodney refuses to think of as a coffin. "Until now, we thought this was true only on the quantum level -- for very small, very fast, very transient particles. But as Andy says, as below, so above. What is true at the quantum level can be true at the macro level."

"So, because the colonel and Rodney were, uh, together once, they're still together?" Lorne frowns at her.

There's a pause and Rodney knows every physicist in the room is trying to decide how to translate the theory into words, and then Miko says, "Sort of."

"If you paint it blue, it'd look a bit like the TARDIS," Biro says. "Except this TARDIS stays behind." That makes Rodney feel a little better, not that he'd ever admit it.

"That's the last time I loan you my Doctor Who videos," he says instead.

"Better name than Transformers," Radek comments to Miko, who nods.

"So, what, you give Rodney something of the colonel's?" Lorne persists.

"No, you see the structure incorporates them at the quantum level," Miko explains. "We used DNA from both but what we think is, ah, working is the charge density unique to each of them."

"I have no idea what you just said," Lorne admits, "So I probably won't understand this, either, but how do you get them back?"

Radek holds out a small box, like something a ring would come in, and opens it. Everyone leans forward. Something silver gleamed inside. "The charge density and the electric current can be calculated from the wave functions," Radek says. "Basically, Rodney will perform an experiment, and we will take coincidence measurements on pairs of entangled particles. The results will tell us when to bring them back."

When no one says anything, Radek hands Rodney the small box. He slips it into his chest pocket, and buttons it in.

"Rodney?" Radek says. Now that it's time, Rodney feels claustrophobic and hesitant to enter the box. TARDIS. Whatever. He remembers Rod appearing from the other universe, so confident and relaxed. He wishes he could be that way. But this is for John; he already knows he can be brave for John, so he steps into the box.

"Wait, wait," Lorne says, and Radek gently pulls him out. "We've got stuff for you."

The stuff is a regulation vest and backpack fully loaded with food, water, med kit, spare clothing, and weapons. He happily straps on his Beretta, checks the pockets of his vest, and lets Ronon load him up with canteens and finally shove an Air Force boonie on his head. When he looks up, his colleagues -- his friends -- are standing in a circle smiling sadly at him. Suddenly, Andy punches him in the arm. "Ow," he says in bewilderment.

"Go get 'em," Andy says.

Rodney backs into the box again -- TARDIS, he decides, really is the best name for it. He's a lot more crowded in there now that he's carrying so much stuff, and he knocks against the side. Radek helps guide him until he's as deep in as he can get. He puts his hand on Rodney's for a moment and says very quietly, "Hodně štěstí." Then he slides the transparent door shut, twists the lock, and steps back. Rodney and Radek stare at each other for a moment, then something begins to spin up, whining until it hurts Rodney's ears. He shuts his eyes and tries not to throw up.

* * *

John had woken up in the middle of the night, hungry and cold. He permitted himself a small bite from the tiffin-box, wrapped himself closely in the kapi, and gone back to sleep. His exhaustion was profound and he slept late into the morning. He could still see his breath when he finally poked his head out the entry, but he couldn't hear anything. He slid out and then crept around until he could see the trail. As much as he hated this world, the utter flatness of the landscape meant he could see a long, long way and be confident no one was following him.

Once he started moving around he had to go through his morning coughing routine; he'd learned to get that over with before eating anything. He spat and wiped his mouth a final time, took another cautious look around, and headed back to the trail. Anf Chhabo hadn't been due back for several more days, so he probably had time. Not that he was going to dawdle.

He walked as quickly as he could, wondering whether he could outrace Ronon these days. He stumbled at the thought -- he was usually more careful about not letting himself remember Atlantis. He determinedly turned his thoughts away from home and back to what he was going to do. If he could keep up this pace, he'd reach the next settlement this afternoon. He had no idea what size it was, but it didn't matter; he wasn't staying there. He wanted to put a lot more distance between himself and Anf Chharbo's place.

The early sunlight gave the landscape an hallucinatory clarity. Flat, flatter than any country he'd been in before, he sometimes felt he could see the curvature of this world. Occasionally, to the southeast, he sometimes thought he saw a distance line of mountains, but it could equally have been a duststorm. He'd been in two bad ones and numberless smaller ones. Winter brought the worst, which was why a rich man like Anf Chharbo had brought his valuable pregnant coti into the barn. Even the coti, evolved on this desolate world, sometimes suffocated and died in the storms, their noses and eyes matted closed with clots of dirt. Or maybe it was a herd of bull coti massing together, kicking up the dust as they fought for dominance. John had learned that wild coti spent their lives segregated by sex, the males fighting, the females running from them. And now running from the humans who hunted them for their fertility and milk.

John had never seen a tree since he'd been dumped here. Some low shrubs, the same color as the land, did manage to struggle on, and John supposed that somewhere something was growing and generating oxygen. Maybe there was even an ocean, though he'd never seen even a stream, nor had it rained in the entire time he'd been here.

Occasionally, like this morning when he was walking as briskly as he could, as much away from one place as toward another, he felt as though he wasn't moving at all, that he was caught in a poorly designed virtual reality. To keep his mind off that, he went back to a favorite game, counting primes. He'd left off at 6101; he remembered that number because Executive Order 6101 had started the Civilian Conservation Corp in 1933. "6113," he said to himself and thought. "Uh, 6121. 6131, 6133." He paused to think. "Shit, 6143." He was getting stupid, he told himself; this world was making him stupid. "6151!" he shouted at the pale sky.

Then he saw a slight variation in the landscape ahead -- the next settlement. He focused on it, walking as quickly as he could without breaking down into another coughing spasm. He had to breathe through his nose; the cold dusty air going into his throat could get him started and he found it hard to stop before he'd thrown up.

The sun was well overhead before he reached what he'd seen, another wide spot in the road. Even if he was willing to stay here, it wasn't big enough for him to find work. But maybe he could find some water. He braced himself.

The entire collection of above-ground buildings numbered seven, one clearly a bar/store/post office. Maybe they'd have messages he could take to the next settlement; sometimes he'd gotten paid to do that, if they were urgent. Looking around at the inauspicious collection of dust-smothered structures, he thought the odds there'd be anything urgent here were slim to non-existent. "Fuck," he breathed, then straightened his back.

Two little boys were playing kickball in the street; they stopped to stare open-mouthed at him as he walked by, then raced shouting ahead of him. Someone threw a chunk of wood after the boys, and John saw a thin man leaning against the crooked support of a kind of front porch. "Morning," he said, and waited. The man just stared at him. "Don't suppose there's any kind of work available."

The guy crossed his arms and squinted at John, who paused in the street but drew no nearer. "I can do anything, doesn't matter."

John was not at all surprised when the guy dropped his arms and pulled out his dick, jerking at it. He said, "I'll want a meal." The guy grinned, his teeth the color of the dust. "Yeah, funny, but a real meal. Coto sausage and cheese."

Still masturbating, the guy said, "If I had coto sausage, would I be here?"

John turned away, disgusted, and saw in the street ahead of him another man striding toward them. "Shit," he heard the guy on the porch say, and he braced himself.

"No fucking!" this guy roared. "Not without I say so." He swung at John, who ducked easily and held up his hands appeasingly.

"Just looking for a meal. I can clean, work with coti, anything."

"Yeah, I know what that means," the man scowled at him, fists still clenched.

"Seriously, I'm not staying."

"Bet your skinny ass you're not." Someone seized John around the waist and tried to lift him; his feet skidded. The second man tried to grab his legs so John kicked in him the face, then kicked behind him, aiming at his attacker's knees. He threw his weight violently to his right and felt the tiffin-box fall. That pissed him off -- that was a good tiffin-box, goddammit -- and he wrenched harder and threw himself backwards. Both of them collapsed under a sudden weight falling onto them.

"Oof," John thought he heard Rodney say. The guy who'd grabbed him at let go, so John rolled away, searching for the second guy and for his tiffin-box. He grabbed it and swung it around, willing to use it as a weapon but not to lose it. Then he saw it was Rodney. He froze.

"Oh my god, are you in a fight? Is this a fight?" Rodney drew his Beretta and fired once into the ground next to the guy clutching his jaw, then scrambled to John's side. "You get the fuck away!" he shouted. John grabbed him by his tac vest and dragged him away from the settlement and back onto the trail.

They trotted in silence, John trying not to cough, until it was clear no one was following them. John, still clutching his tiffin-box, stopped and stared at Rodney, who holstered the Beretta, and stared at John. "What?" John tried to ask.

"It's a long story, but we figured out how to lock onto your position and now I want to get you back, my god, you look _terrible_ , what the fuck happened to you?"

"How did you get here? Why didn't you come sooner? Do you know what I've gone through!" John shouted louder and louder, furious. "Do you know what I've had to do to survive?" he tried to shout, but he started coughing. Fuck, he thought, bending over the tiffin-box. He coughed till tears streamed from his eyes and snot from his nose, spitting wads of dirt from his throat until he vomited a thin gruel of tea, dirt, and the bit of cheese he'd had the previous night. He could hear over the roar in his ears McKay being frantic, felt his big hands on John's shoulders, then one patting his lower back.

Eventually he stopped and Rodney manhandled him to the ground away from the mess. He sat hunched over, legs spread, hands between them on the ground. He felt the fine dust grit beneath his fingers and tried to focus on the sensation and just breathe, quietly and slowly, through his nose. At last he sat up a bit and looked at Rodney.

Who looked _wrecked_. He held out a canteen, then helped John drink from it. John wanted to gulp the contents down but he knew better and started with small sips, spitting the first out over his shoulder to get rid of the taste of the dust. The water was still cool, and tasted fresh, not the bitter alkali flavor of the local water pumped up by enormous windmills. He drank as much as he dared, then poured a little over his face. "God, that tastes good," he gasped. He washed out his eyes and nose, ignoring Rodney's sputtering, and then drank a bit more before handing the still half-full canteen back. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it. The dry air evaporated the water almost instantly, and he shivered.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Rodney said. He sounded miserable, and looked terrible. He'd lost weight, too, John noted, and his eyes were sunken with exhaustion. He wanted to feel the anger again at being left for so long, but now he felt only gratitude that his friend had worked so hard to find him.

"When do we go? Is the _Daedalus_ here? A jumper?"

Rodney shook his head. "It wasn't that easy," he said. He put away the canteen and then said, looking at his tac vest, "We had to invent a new math to find you."

John laughed, sharp and sudden, the first laugh in too long. "If you get the Nobel for it, be sure to thank me," he said, and Rodney flashed a grin at him, somehow sad and proud at once.

Then John realized the wind was stirring. "Fuck," he said, twisting to look over his shoulder to the east. "Dusttorm. We need to find cover, unless you can get us home."

"The static electricity -- I'm not sure how the -- well, it's complicated, but it's based on quantum entanglement theory, on small charges that remain entangled, uh, connected no matter how far apart."

"If we have to wait until there's less static electricity, then you're stuck here, too," John told him, feeling something in the pit of his stomach. Fear, he thought. "But right now, we need to get out of the wind."

"How? Where?" Rodney asked, looking around. Already the horizon was obscured by the flying dust. John hadn't seen anything since the last settlement, though he knew there had to be a windmill to supply it with water. He looked back and to the west, but the dust was too thick. Rodney began to cough.

"Shit," John said, and dug through his small pack for the single most valuable possession on this world: a sort of sleep sack made of ultra-fine material -- probably cota mare fur; everything of value on this world seemed to come from cota mares. He'd stolen it after his first experience out in a duststorm; that's when his cough had begun. This would be a tight fit, but it was the only way.

He chivvied Rodney to the west side of the trail in the hope that the very small decrease in elevation would help, and then had him stretch out flat, face down. "Pull this over your head," he shouted above the wind. "Hang on to it!" They fought the sack over their heads and half-way down their bodies, John hoping it wouldn't rip. They lay crammed together, half facing each other. When John had worked the sack under their hips, he tied it tightly and firmly, rolled onto it, and then stared into Rodney's face.

Rodney was staring back at him, wide eyes, mouth unhappy. "I'm so sorry," he said again.

"It's okay," John said. "I know you tried your best. And you succeeded. I thought the SGC would have made you stop months ago." Rodney looked guilty. "I'm glad you didn't let them boss you around," John said, and Rodney nodded.

They wiggled a bit more until they could rest their heads on their crooked arms, and John pulled Rodney closer, until their foreheads touched. The light was dim, and with Rodney so close, John was finally warming up, and their combined breath added humidity to their little environment. The combination of Rodney, his warmth, and the humidity let John's muscles relax and he realized they ached from being tensed for so many months. He sighed, and let his eyes drift shut.

"How long will this last?" Rodney asked.

John could barely hear him over the wind. Without opening his eyes, he shook his head. "No way to tell," he said, but he was so tired, and he felt safe. No one would be out in this. He slept.

He dreamt of Rodney holding him, stroking his forehead and cheeks, kissing his temple. He was warm and relaxed. He'd forgotten how it felt to be close to someone he trusted and cared for, how comforting Rodney could be in spite of -- or maybe because of -- his irascibility and determination. He squirmed closer to Rodney, putting his own arm around Rodney's waist, sighing into Rodney's throat. He'd had this dream before, he thought, and slowly woke to find this time it wasn't a dream.

Rodney was whispering to him, barely audible under the howl of the wind that pushed at them and tugged at their breathing sack. "So fucking sorry, John. I tried so hard, but it was Radek and Miko, but I came, I will always come, oh shit, John, I'm so sorry. Never leave a man behind, you taught me that, and I tried, I really tried."

"Shh, shh," John said. "I knew you'd come. You always do. It's what we do."

"Yeah," Rodney said, with a hiccup of laughter. "Guess it was my turn."

He inched closer to Rodney; he couldn't believe how good it felt to lie next to his sturdy body, to feel his arm draped around John's shoulder and stroking John's hair. He whispered, "I did terrible things, Rodney."

"I know," Rodney said. "I mean, I don't know, but it doesn't matter. You did what you had to to stay alive until your team could come. That's the right thing to do. Stay warm, stay breathing, stay alive as long as you can -- give your team the biggest window of opportunity possible. You stayed alive, John."

John thought Rodney sounded as if he were quoting someone, but he was too tired to ask. He noted the wind was fiercer than ever, but that Rodney had secured the breathing sack more thoroughly. Dust still filtered through, but little more than on a breezy day. He'd also somehow worked his jacket off and over them both, so it trapped their body heat. He couldn't remember being this warm.

"Sometimes these storms last for days," he finally said.

"I'll have to pee eventually," Rodney said, "but other than that, we can manage." He shifted so John's head rested on Rodney's chest, and one of John's legs fell between Rodney's. "You feel so good," Rodney whispered.

John remembered blowing guys in the first few towns, until he'd walked to a coti ranch and found work with the animals. Between working in a slaughterhouse and working as a whore, he preferred the latter, but now he felt hesitant to touch Rodney the way he wanted to. As if it would be another kind of economic transaction and not the gesture he wanted it to be. He wanted to feel cared for -- he wanted, he admitted to himself, to feel loved. But maybe that was all spoiled now. Which was stupid, he thought, disgusted with himself. If Rodney had been in his position, John wouldn't have felt anything but compassion for him, and he was certain Rodney would feel the same.

He sighed, stretched a bit, hearing his joints pop in the dry air, and then relaxed again, forcing his muscles to loosen. Eventually, he heard Rodney snore. John laughed to himself, and then had to try not to cry; he had missed that sound during the nights. He pictured himself with his team on some friendly world, camping out. Even Teyla had a little snore, not that any of the men would mention it to her. Ronon's were the loudest, though John's teammates assured him that his snores were. "You ever been checked for a perforated septum?" Rodney would ask teasingly. Hearing that soft buzz made John inexplicably happy.

He fell asleep again as well, but this time, he didn't dream, just slept profoundly.

He woke from the quiet -- the winds had died down. In the humid warmth of the breathing sack, it was utterly dark. He wondered how much dust had settled on top of them. "Rodney," he whispered. "Wake up."

"'M wake," Rodney said. "John?"

"Yeah, the storm --" Rodney rolled on top of John and kissed him. Not subtle, John thought, smiling through the kiss. "Hey, wait," he said, pulling back a little bit, just enough to kiss Rodney closed-mouth and stroke his face. "Something to tell you."

"You don't like me _that way_ ," Rodney said bitterly. "You're a fucking cocktease, Sheppard. I'm socially inept, I admit, downright bad with people, but even I knew -- I mean, I thought I knew." He wound down sadly. "I guess I mean I hoped."

"No, you're right, and I was an asshole for not being honest with you, but --"

"Yes, yes, US military, team leader, no fraternization, blah blah blah," Rodney interrupted.

"Well, yeah, but here I don't care. It's just, there's something I have to tell you first."

"Oh god, you caught an STD."

"No!" John said. "I mean, I don't think so."

"Fuck."

"No, not that. Just, you know, had to make a living and in the beginning it was really hard. It's a pretty segregated society here, lots of, uh, what Kate would have called homosocial behavior."

"You had to make a living?" Rodney asked quietly, and John could hear his thoughts leap ahead.

"Not often, and just at first. I didn't have much to barter. My watch, my tac vest, but my coat got stolen. It was so cold, and I had to eat."

"Christ, John." Rodney hugged him tighter, pressing his face against John's. "I am so fucking sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Those fucking Couriers," Rodney growled loudly. John could feel Rodney's heartrate increase, so he stroked Rodney's arm. "We chased them all over the galaxy. Ronon broke the back of their head guy, and Teyla shot his two captains. I blew up their ship. They're stuck on PX3-299," he added with satisfaction. John remembered that world; it had a gate, but high in orbit. So the Couriers had been planeted, too. Fitting punishment, he thought.

"Thank you," he said.

"So," Rodney said, pushy, "if you're through trying to explain in your usual laconic fashion, and if you don't object, I really -- I'd like -- if you don't mind . . ."

John took pity on him and lifted his head, tilting it slightly, so even Rodney understood and kissed him. John sighed into it, opening his mouth, letting Rodney in. Their tongues stroked and John, for the first time in months, felt a sudden urgency and pushed his body hard against Rodney's, sliding against Rodney's thigh. "Oh fucking god," Rodney gasped, then kissed him again, long and lush. Fountains should spring up, John thought, laughing at himself, and rain shower down on this desiccated land now that Rodney was here. "Am I doing something wrong?" Rodney asked.

"No, not in the least," John said, but he couldn't stop smiling, and they kissed and grinned goofily at each other. They couldn't have any kind of sex inside a breathing sack, and John really didn't want to come in his disgusting trousers, but to be held and wanted and kissed was enough for now. At last he rested his head on Rodney's shoulder and sighed.

The wind was quieter now, back to its normal thin whine, barely perceptible. John's stomach growled, and he realized he was thirsty again. He'd trained himself not to think about food and drink, but with Rodney here, still smelling slightly of coffee, he let himself.

"I heard that," Rodney said. "Is it -- has the storm died down enough?"

"Yeah, but close your eyes and mouth." John did, too, and then punched the top of the breathing sack to knock the layer of dust off. He could feel the fine particles settle on his face, so he clenched his mouth and began to wiggle free of the sack, Rodney catching on quickly. When they were free, Rodney sneezed twice and said, "Oh yuck."

It was fully night, and bitterly cold. White clouds puffed with their each exhalation and the hairs in John's nose immediately froze. He blinked rapidly, trying to moisten his eyes. He sat up and shook out the breathing sack carefully in case they needed it again; it had saved his life many times now and he treasured it. Rodney awkwardly climbed to his feet to stretch, then helped John up. "What a dump," he said looking around.

The lesser moon was up tonight, and though low on the horizon, there was enough light to see the endless stretch of high plains. Level, treeless, apparently infinite, the sight sometimes made John dizzy as if he could fall off the world. There had been times he wished he could fall off, but not now. Now he stood near Rodney, who handed him the canteen again. He rinsed his mouth and spat, then drank deeply. "I've got sandwiches, and power bars, and some really good chocolate Jeannie sent me," Rodney said. John nodded quickly, so still standing by the trail, Rodney broke out the food. John bit into a ham-and-cheese sandwich with lettuce still crisp. He held the bite in his mouth, savoring the textures and flavors. He hadn't had anything this good since the Couriers had captured him.

He tried not to gobble, but the sandwich was so good, washed down with fresh-tasting water. Rodney handed him an apple and he nearly wept at its perfect crisp sweetness; he ate every bit except the stem and the seeds, which he spit out into the desert. Finally, Rodney handed him a single square of chocolate -- "Rationing it out, McKay?" he drawled -- but when he put it in his mouth he nearly drowned from the taste and smell. He sighed and licked every bit from his mouth, then kissed Rodney, hard, who kissed him back, clutching at his shoulders then sliding one hand down to the small of John's back to hold him tightly, as close as they could get in their clothes, bending over John, groaning, pushy in kisses as in evertyhing else.

"Jesus," Rodney panted, and then, "Let's see if we can go home."

"Let's see?" John repeated, hoping Rodney was joking. "I'd like a little more conviction in your tone."

"Um," Rodney said. "I'm sure it'll work." He pulled from his pocket a small box and flipped it open. Inside glittered something small, not much larger than the ring John's dad had worn.

"What the hell is that?"

"Well, we didn't have time to name it, but it's part of an entanglement experiment." He look earnestly at John. "I'm sorry, but it really is an experiment. One I feel extremely confident will succeed, and Radek and Miko do, too, but this isn't a sure thing. We couldn't find you, and the fucking Couriers didn't know -- they didn't fucking know, John. They'd dialed some random address and pushed you through; it could have been into space, into a sun, anywhere." He paused and said, "That's when Ronon killed the admiral or whatever the hell he was, once we realized they really didn't know or care where they'd sent you."

John swallowed, trying not to imagine the fear and anger his team had suffered because of him. He started to say, "I'm sorry" again but Rodney said, "So we invented this. It's based on entanglement theory, and quantum communication and quantum teleportation. We built a superconductor version of, well, Simpson calls it the TARDIS but I thought it looked like a coffin so TARDIS it is, and we sort of tuned it to you, but not really -- there isn't any way to explain it, not in words."

"Whatever it is, can you do it again?" John put his hands to his temples. If he had to stay on this fucking world, at least Rodney was here, though in some ways that made it worse. He didn't want Rodney to have to experience bartering blowjobs and rarely sleeping in the same place twice and not knowing where the next meal would come from.

Rodney took an enormous breath. "Yes," he said firmly. "But first --" He snapped shut the little box, put his arms around John, and pulled him in. John kissed him, meeting him halfway, relaxing into Rodney's arms. When Rodney pulled his head back, John tried to follow, kissing his chin, his cheek, his ear. Rodney rested his head against John's and whispered, "This place sucks." John heard the box snap open behind his back and then

"Rodney! Ach, hovno," Radek cries.

Rodney opens his eyes and says, "Oof." Something -- John -- landed on top of him, and it feels as though he fell from a great distance. "Holy shit, it worked!" He gently pushes John off and into Lorne's and Ronon's arms, then sits up staring around him. "We're here! Is this real? It worked! Did it work?"

Radek seizes Rodney's head and kisses his cheeks, right then left then right again. "I will kill you if you do this again," he says.

Miko is kneeling next to Radek, holding Rodney's hand. "Oh, you are really here, really back." She bursts into tears; Carolyn Simpson puts her arms around Miko, but Rodney sees tears on her face, too.

"How long were we gone?" he asks, but everyone has turned their attention to John, who is apparently unconscious. "Fuck me," Rodney swears. "If he's dead after all this work I'll kill him."

"Not dead," Biro says, checking John's eyes, the pulse in his throat, putting her ear next to his head to listen. "Not dead at all. But my god, he's so thin."

"It was a shitty, shitty world," Rodney says, his throat tight. He doesn't admit it, but he's a bit dizzy, so remains seated on the floor, watching the others take care of John. Normally he would like more attention paid to himself but right now, he's content to watch.

"Dehydrated," Biro murmurs, pinching John's arm. "Malnourished. Oh my god, look, he's lost a tooth." There's a murmur of mourning from the women, and maybe from Rodney, too.

"Jesus," Lorne says, and gently rotates John's head so Biro can see. "Something whacked him good here." Rodney should look, but he's afraid to.

"We need to get him to the infirmary," Biro says, rising. "I'm not at all prepared." She turns away to speak into her radio as Lorne eases John back down, to lie with his head on Lorne's thigh.

"What the hell happened?" Ronon growls at Rodney, as if it were his fault.

Rodney shakes his head, for once unable to speak. John hadn't told him much, but he already knew more than he wanted to. He rubs his hip where he landed, and the back of his head; there's already a small knot there. In minutes, there's a small army of nurses and doctors assisting Biro; they lever John onto a gurney and then he's gone. Biro runs back into the lab. "You come too, Rodney," she says, and disappears down the corridor.

"Come on," Ronon says, and helps Rodney to his feet, Radek and Miko rising with him. "I called Teyla; she just left to check on Torren and Kanaan."

"What do you mean?" Rodney asks when Ronon's words sink in. "She just left?"

"You were gone only a heartbeat," Radek says, pushing up his smudgy glasses. "Why didn't I time this? We could have learned so much. We will have to estimate."

"I timed it," Miko says quietly, and Radek beams at her.

"Wait, wait," Rodney says, bringing his posse to a halt. "Explain to me how long a 'heartbeat' is."

"Seventy-eight seconds," Miko says, and Rodney staggers at the implications.

"But I was there for hours," he protests. He looks wildly from Radek to Miko to Carolyn. "Hours and hours. Through a fucking duststorm of Biblical proportions, and then we ate, and we walked, and that's not possible. Except," and he pauses, thinking.

"Come _on_ ," Ronon insists, and Rodney obeys knowing if he doesn't Ronon will just sling Rodney over his shoulder.

Woolsey is already at the infirmary when they arrive, staring wide-eyed at John. "Doctor McKay," he says, putting a hand to his head as if he's developing a headache, "I thought we'd agreed you weren't -- how did you do this? How is this possible? Space foam? Spacetime continuum?"

"Something like that," Rodney says. He pushes his way through the crowd of curious and medical personnel to stand by John's bed. He's already hooked up to equipment measure his heartrate, respiration, blood pressure, and brainwaves, and while he watches, one of the nurses swiftly sets up intravenous rehydration. "He was fine," Rodney says softly.

"We don't really know what the transportation device does," Biro says calmly. "This may be perfectly normal for someone in his condition. His brain waves are normal for someone asleep; he's deep in delta."

"So not a coma?" Richard asks nervously, still rubbing his temple.

Biro shakes her head. "No. I think he's just profoundly asleep. And that we should let him rest." She glares around her. "Which means most of you can go. I'll call you when he wakes up."

Rodney stares at her, beaming his wish to stay, and she must catch his brain wave, whatever Hertz that might be measured at. She smiles a little, and nods, and he stays, hovering over John. Biro pulls up the bedrails and pats Rodney's shoulder, then begins taking notes. Miko takes Richard by the arm and gently pulls him away, speaking softly to him, and Radek follows. Lorne and Ronon take up position on either side of the entryway to the infirmary, and then suddenly Teyla is there.

She almost skids to a halt, reaching out for Ronon, who gently takes her arm. Then she pulls away and walks to Rodney, staring at John's relaxed face.

Rodney sees tears in her eyes so he looks away, back at John. He grips the railing tightly and realizes he's rocking a bit, forward and back, and forces himself to be still. He takes a deep breath, and then, shyly, slides his hand to Teyla's, also on the railing.

"Thank you, Rodney," she breathes. "You are truly a great magician and warrior."

Rodney almost laughs, almost cries, but it was the right thing to say because now he can turn to Teyla. They embrace; he feels her tears on his chest and holds her even tighter. "He'll be all right," he says, voice tight. "He was fine on that planet. Biro says he's just asleep."

Teyla takes a deep breath, pats Rodney's shoulder, and bends down to kiss John's forehead. "Then we will wait for him," she says, and they do.

As the time passes, people come, stay awhile, and then go, but the four of them remain, watching. Biro stays on duty long after her shift ends, and by twenty-three hundred of the second day John's home, all of them are sprawled in chairs, nodding off. Rodney sits next to John's head on his left, Teyla on his right, and they take turns holding John's hands. He already looks better; his face filled out a bit, better color, his breathing not as stertorus. Biro had listened closely to his chest for a while but hadn't said anything.

After another check in from Biro, Rodney followed her to a small office. "He said something to me," he whispered, not meeting her eyes. "I know he wouldn't want me to say anything, but he said he, well, on that planet." Rodney takes an enormous breath but Biro interrupts him.

"Standard procedure, Rodney, so don't worry."

"Thank god," he says in a rush. She grins at him, and he sees how tired she is. "Um, shouldn't you get some rest? It's not like there aren't any other doctors."

"But no other doctors from the first year," she says, and he nods.

"Thank you," he says, and awkwardly pats her shoulder. She laughs at him, then offers him some Smarties. Munching happily, he returns to John's bedside and settles in to wait for John to wake up.

He sleeps three full days. Rodney hadn't known it was possible to sleep that long, but apparently months of starvation and exhaustion will do that. "Especially to someone his age," Biro says, and Rodney stores that away to tease John with later, much later. After all, John is thirteen months older than Rodney. That's worth some teasing.

It's all very un-climactic when he finally wakes. He begins to breath louder and stir. His eyes flutter, and he smacks his lips. He rubs his face, stretches, and only then does he open his eyes.

His team, Lorne, Radek, Miko, Carolyn, and most of the nurses and doctors are crowded around his bed, but Rodney has claimed prime position so he's the first person John sees when he opens his eyes. Rodney stares at him willing him to recognize him, where he is, all these people, and then John smiles, a big smile nothing like his usual closed-mouth professional smile. "Hey," Rodney says, his voice embarrassingly tender.

"Hey," John says, and starts to cough. He coughs so long and so hard that the big nurse, Rob Lucas, shifts him so he's sitting up with his legs dangling from the side of the bed while Biro listens through her stethoscope. "Let's nebulize him," Rodney hears her say quietly to Rob. Without being asked, Rodney moves into Rob's position and John rests his head against Rodney's shoulder. He shudders with each cough.

"What is this?" Rodney asks Biro.

She makes a face and shakes her head. "Bronchospasm. I'm hearing a lot of wheezing."

"From the dust," Rodney says.

"We'll get his lungs clear, keep him on oxygen for a while," she says. She and Rodney maneuver John so he's sitting propped up with pillows. His eyes and nose are streaming, so Rodney mops his face with the harsh tissues the infirmary provides until Teyla hands him one of her soft woven handkerchiefs. John smiles at her, and squeezes her hand. "Don't talk," Biro warns John, but then Rob is back with the equipment, and Teyla and Rodney have to step back.

Richard has been called, Rodney notices. He also notices that Ronon is keeping a close eye on Richard, and that that's making Richard nervous. John also notices because he lifts a hand in greeting to Richard, who smiles widely, and suddenly Rodney isn't nearly as irritated with Richard as he has been for the last few months.

It takes days to settle John, and Biro firmly orders Rodney to get some sleep. Ronon looks exhausted, too, though Kanaan has already taken Teyla home. Lorne has been switching off with Captain Radnor. Each morning before breakfast, Rodney swings by the infirmary, and each morning John looks better. The doctors still won't let him talk, but he's awake and alert and plays with Torren with little handpuppets. Torren makes all the voices while his doting parents watch, and maybe Rodney thinks it's pretty cute, too.

One evening, Rodney comes by, as he has every evening, and John is sitting up thumbs busy at his Nintendo DS Lite. Rodney peers over his shoulder. "Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney -- any fun?" he asks. John grins at him and shrugs. "You look good," he says abruptly, and feels his face heat.

"Thanks," John whispers.

"Shit, don't get me in trouble by talking!"

"Naw, it's okay. Not too much, though, or it starts up again."

Rodney nods. He fidgets before John's smiling gaze. "Um. Good to have you back. And I know I said this already, but in case you forgot, I'm sorry it took so fucking long. We really --" but John has set down the game and rests his hand on Rodney's forearm.

"I know," he says. "And I remember."

Rodney takes a sharp breath. "Uh. Everything?"

John nods.

"And you're okay? With what you remember? With what happened?"

John tilts his head and purses his lips. Rodney bends nearer. "Are you?" John whispers.

"Shit, yeah. I mean, if you are. But yeah, yes, I really am. Okay." He huffs in frustration.

"Me, too," John breathes. Rodney feels hypnotized by his voice and leans nearer. He stares at John's lips, remembering kissing them. So he does.

John kisses him back, lush, moist, so different from that first time on the planet; his lips are soft now, not chapped and dry, and there's no taste of the dust. "Oh my god," Rodney says, trying not to grab John too tightly. "There is no way to express how much I want to do this, what I want to do."

John grins up at him, leaning back onto his pillows. "I get out tomorrow," he says, and Rodney hears a promise in the words.

"Cool," he replies, smiling pretty hard himself. "Just, cool."

"Thank you, Rodney," John says more seriously. "I don't know how much longer I would have lasted."

"Me, either," Rodney admits, but to hell with that; he kisses John again, pressing him deeper into the soft white pillows mounded around him, and rests his hand where John's shoulder meets his throat, and beneath his hand he can feel John's pulse, and thinks: _alive alive alive_ , and kisses him harder in gratitude and love.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [Auburn](http://auburnnothenna.livejournal.com)  
> Title from [Soldier](http://www.bartleby.com/103/149.html), by Rupert Brooke


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